Page 141 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

She throws her leg high on the bumper.

No panties, pussy hangin’ in his face.

He gives it the routine, then he goes cold, dark, and numb, head tipped back, mouth open, lettin’ her ride his tongue like it don’t belong to him no more. His body aches from holdin’ himself down—the real guy locked somewhere inside him.

The tired bastard.

The pissed-off bastard.

The one who wants to swing at her or scream loud enough to crack the concrete walls. Instead he keeps his head back, mouth wide, tongue slidin’ from hole to clit.

He’s gone. So gone that if she slit his throat open from ear to ear, he’d bleed out and never know it. Instead, she uses his skull as a seat, fistin’ his head and fuckin’ his mouth faster. He snaps his hands up to grab her, to take back an inch of control, remindin’ himself he ain’t some object she can grind to pieces.

Finally, her whole body locks up, then breaks open on him, legs shakin’ violently, the heel of her shoe scrapin’ across his bumper.

When the climax passes, her muscles unlock, and her cunt falls limp in his mouth. He cleans her up, never wantin' 'em leavin’ sticky after, don’t want 'em havin’ to clean up a mess alone, carryin’ anything that could turn into shame between their thighs. He’d rather swallow it down, consume it, leave no trace behind.

And in his head, he thinks—Christ, if I could do the same for me, lick myself clean, the guilt, the numb, the disgust, so I don’t carry it after every fuckin’ time.

When her foot finally leaves the bumper, he’s stuck there, frozen on his knees, chest heavin’, every muscle tight. At that moment, he could break knuckles on the concrete… or he could just break down cryin’.

He wipes his face, starin’ out into the night, holdin’ it all in.

And when he finally stands, it’s like he’s risin’ outta his own grave. A man on the edge of collapse who refuses to. He keeps his gaze nailed to the dark sky ‘cause he knows if he looks at her, he’ll wanna punch her, and it ain’t her fault.

And that ain’t who he is.

So he stares past her.

“You’re mine, Andrew.” But he hardly registers the words, hardly feels her lips brushin’ his jaw. “Don’t fuckin’ play. Just give it to me.”

She ain’t done.

Her hand lands on his zipper when his reflex snaps, and he smacks it off, breathin’ hard like somebody yanked him outta a nightmare.

But she still don’t quit and goes straight for his belt, snatchin’ him closer.

“What—so you’ll eat my cunt but you won’t fuck me?” She shakes her head, like this ain’t the end of the fantasy she wrote. She probably knows his rules, wants him breakin’ one for her. “You ain’t walkin’ away from this, baby. Not now.”

Yeah. He’s gonna have to fuck her.

Only way out’s through.

She needs an ending to her love story.

One that fucks like closure.

Then she’ll replay it, romanticize it, and let it go. Or at least, that’s what he’s hopin’. He don’t know anymore.

His heartbeat’s so faint he questions if it’s even there, if he’s just a walkin’ corpse, ‘cause he’s never felt this far removed from himself before, watchin’ this weak-ass Jersey boy standin’ there while her hand’s on his soft dick, cryin’ in his head about havin’ to have sex with her. Jesus.

Grindin’ down on his teeth, he grabs her, spins her, and shoves her face down into the trunk. He feels the thrill rip through her body, sees it in the way she hikes her skirt, back bent, ass pushin’ out, grindin’ like it’s supposed to make his dick hard.

“Yeah, baby… like that. C’mon, you know you been wantin’ this bad.”

His buckle rattles as his hand dives into his jeans, fistin’ his limp cock, jerkin’ himself awake. With his other hand, he drives three fingers inside her. Her cum coats his knuckles as he works himself, tryin’ to get it in the game, thinkin’ maybe if he strokes ‘em both good enough he’ll trick his dick into believin’ it wants this.

“Gimme your cock,” she whimpers, tearin’ off her shirt and bra while bouncin’ on his soaked knuckles. “I can’t take it anymore.”